Bad Sister(23)

Connie checked her watch. Forty-five minutes before her first client of the day. ‘Make it quick then.’ She let him into the waiting area and stood, staring at him. His hair was ruffled, giving him a dishevelled appearance despite his smart suit. The shoulders were a darker grey due to the drizzle. She imagined he’d have to buy specially tailored suits because of his height.

He cast his eyes warily around the area. ‘Shall we go up to your office?’

Connie tutted. ‘Fine.’

Upstairs, he stood by the wall of certificates and waited while she took her suit jacket off, watching as she shook the drizzle from it before hanging it up. Only when she sat, did he take the chair opposite her. Was he being polite now to make up for his previous poor manner? He really must want her onside. Despite wanting to give him a hard time to make up for his behaviour and the fact he’d ignored her request, Connie softened.

‘What is it that I can help you with, Detective Sergeant Mack?’

‘If I’m calling you Connie, I’d feel more comfortable with you calling me Mack. All my colleagues do.’

She raised her eyebrows. The buddy-buddy approach now, was it? She wanted to point out that she wasn’t his colleague, and wasn’t particularly fussed about making him feel comfortable, but instead she let it ride. She didn’t have time to be dramatic, or awkward. It’d be quicker and more painless if she cooperated fully and got this done so she could carry on with the rest of her day.

‘Okay, Mack – I’ll do what I can to help.’

‘Thank you.’ His face brightened, transforming his weathered-looking appearance into one that seemed younger than it had before. Connie couldn’t confidently put an age on him – he could be anywhere between forty-five and fifty-five, she presumed. He opened a large envelope and pulled out its contents. ‘These were tattooed on to the victim, Hargreaves, post-mortem.’ Mack placed the pictures on her desk and fanned them out. ‘Obviously we’re looking into these independently, however, I’d like your thoughts on them.’

Connie sat forward and straightened the A4-sized sheets. She studied them one by one in silence, giving each tattoo about ten seconds of her attention before going back to the first and picking it up.

‘Being copies, it’s difficult to be sure, as the detail is lost somewhat.’

‘I know, but any ideas are welcome – perhaps you could come into the station soon and see the originals.’

‘Hmm.’ Connie gave him a thin smile. ‘Well. They’re quite crude. All of them are roughly done with just dark ink. Although I’d bet this wasn’t standard ink a tattooist would use, more likely an improvised ink.’

‘Like that used by prisoners?’

‘Certainly I’ve seen many that are similarly etched while I worked in Baymead, yes. And Hargreaves had a number of tattoos that were done in that way. He’d had a few adjudications for having them and giving them to other prisoners. He’d been on basic regime loads of times because of it. He had an obsession with them and didn’t care about punishment, always had stuff confiscated but seemed to get his hands on new gear easily. Are you sure they were done post-mortem?’

‘Pathologist confirmed. So, first picture – what would you say it is?’

Connie looked at Mack and frowned. Was he serious?

‘It’s a bird.’

‘What type?’

‘How should I know. I’m not a twitcher!’

Mack snorted. ‘Ha-ha. All right, but I want your perspective, your idea of what it might look like. We have our impressions about each of these tattoos but wanted your opinion. And as you worked in a prison, and with the victim, I … we, thought you might have something different to offer?’

‘Okay. Fair point, we can perceive things differently so it’s worth gathering other people’s views.’ Connie looked back down at the bird. ‘It’s odd. Not sure if it’s just bad drawing, but the top and bottom of the bird are disparate – like two separate halves of different birds. I haven’t seen anything similar in the prison.’

‘We had the same feeling on that one. Can’t say which species they are?’

‘Nope. You really do need a twitcher for that. All I can say is they look to me like your common garden variety.’

‘Next?’

‘Hmm. All I can say is that it appears to be a pattern of lines and crosses. Code? Or perhaps it represents something – a sign or symbol? It does remind me of something … not sure what, though. I feel like I’ve seen it, like on a shop sign, maybe.’

Mack was writing furiously in his notebook, his brows drawn close and tongue protruding through his lips in concentration. He looked like an overgrown child.

‘And this next one I’d say is a code.’

‘Can you make out what the letters are?’

Connie reeled off the letters and numbers: ‘U, 2, X, 5, 1. The five might be an S though, difficult to tell because of the blurring.’

‘Sure. Any ideas as to what they could mean?’

‘Part of a number plate? That’s all I can come up with off the top of my head. Can I take these?’

Mack hesitated, seemed to be weighing up the options. ‘Er, no. My DI would string me up.’

‘Can’t have that now, can we?’ Connie gave him a wry smile and handed the picture to him, storing the code to memory, to recall when he’d gone.